And She Looked Back
by LadyTP
Summary: "It was untoward, it was indecent, she should not be so close to him. A lesson – a lesson for him is what this is all about." Continuation to "The Look" – a glimpse to what could happen if their tables were turned. The last time it was Sandor gazing at Sansa against her will – now it is Sansa's turn… AU set in the Vale around 'A Feast of Crows'.
1. And Thus We Meet Again

_**Author's Notes:**_ Here it is finally - the sequel to my fic "The Look"! I wrote that over 2 years ago and have been contemplating a sequel pretty much ever since– after all, Sandor deserved to get his comeuppance someday, didn't he? My bad that it took this long, but better late than never…

This grew a bit longer than intended, so I am breaking this into 3-4 chapters. Do share your thoughts about this – don't be shy! :-) (Also posted in AO3)

 **Warnings:** Dubcon, nudity, subjugation

* * *

"Well?"

"Pardon?"

"Did you do as we agreed, girl? Or did you just come here to chirp?"

The voice was low and raspy, just as she had remembered it through all these years. It was a voice from the past she had buried so deep that hearing it now was like an old wound being prodded open – already healed and forgotten but the pain then returning in familiar waves. Or maybe she had never truly healed, only covered her wound under a thick scab? Sansa took a deep breath and fisted her hands, trying to gain control of herself.

His form too was as big and formidable as in her memories even though he was hunched on a long wooden bench his back against stone wall, long legs stretched out before him. He was shackled by his ankles and wrists into iron cuffs and looping metal chains bound him to the wall. Somehow, as restrained as he was, it was as if he filled the whole room with his presence and sucked the air right out of it - suddenly Sansa felt she was suffocating.

 _The Hound._

She released the latch carefully not to make any noise and stepped fully inside, pulling the door softly close behind her. She placed the thick bundle she had been carrying on a counter near the door and tiptoed around the room lighting torches on the wall from the candle she carried. She still couldn't get around the fact that the Hound was alive and here, in flesh and blood. _Not dead. Not a ghost. Yet o_ therworldly dread of being in the presence of a shadow made her hands shake. Sansa tried to hide it by squeezing the candle tighter – she couldn't let him see how much his presence affected her.

"I did. I didn't."

Before she wouldn't have had the courage to talk to him like that, but much had happened since the last time they saw each other. The timid girl was gone, having shed her skin and emerged as Alayne, the witty bastard daughter of Lord Baelish the Lord Protector of the Vale.

"So?"

"I have the key to the chains, a change of clothes and I have opened the side door at the end of this very corridor. It will lead you out of the castle to the bailey. If you keep your head down you should be able to find your way into the stables, take a horse and be on your way before your escape is discovered. Just be sure to wait until the darkest hour, when the keep is most quiet."

Only a grunt greeted the news but then, she hadn't expected effusive declarations of gratitude.

"The rest of the Brothers are also leaving at first light. You may meet them on the road."

"I may have been stupid to get caught, but I am not _that_ stupid. They will be the first ones scrutinised after my escape is noticed, them and the Quiet Isle. No, I better go anywhere but there."

Sansa shrug her shoulders and laid the items she had brought out one by one. A simple dagger, the longest and sharpest she had found. The largest tunic and breeches she had been able to pinch from the seamstresses' rooms were made for a much fatter person and were sure to be too short in arms and legs but that couldn't be helped. She was glad she didn't have to try to locate boots as well. Although the Hound had been stripped off all his belongings, at least all his clothes were left in the room. Not that it was much: just a simple garb of a brother of Faith, a rope-belt, the aforementioned boots and simple rough-woven undertunic and light breeches he wore.

The last item she placed on the counter was a cloak. It was the only piece suited to his size; it had been white once but was now faded and dirty, stained with blood splatters and ashen soot smeared into its weave. She had had it with her ever since _that_ night, stored in her trunk under her summer silks. It had given her strange comfort on cold nights when only memories of past kindnesses had kept her going – even if they had been in the form of an odd gentleness from a bitter soul.

"Why are you doing this?"

The question surprised Sansa, but something in its cautious tone made her stop and think before replying. _Yes, why?_

She had immediately noticed the brother head and shoulder taller than the others in the newly arrived group from the Quiet Isle. It being _him_ she however could never have imagined. The news of the death of the infamous Hound had reached the Vale some time ago, and upon hearing them Sansa had felt queer emptiness inside her. Later, for reasons unclear even to herself, she had shed burning tears for the man she had hardly known in the quiet of her rooms.

And then she had dried her eyes and buried the cloak even deeper. After all, he was only one more in the long list of people whose life had touched hers and who were now gone from it forever.

It had been his loud gasp of surprise when Sansa had walked to the dais that had turned everyone's attention to him and led to his arrest. Petyr had ordered him to be kept under lock and key until he decided what to do with him _. 'That man is dangerous and I must not underestimate him. I don't know why he is among the Brothers of Seven but I will find out'_ he had responded to Sansa's queries about his actions.

 _Yes, that's it. It was my fault he was arrested and it is my duty to help him to get out._

Was that then the reason why Sansa had crept into this cell the previous night? Or her desire to get the confirmation of her own eyes that sometimes people indeed _did_ come back from death? Whatever it was, he had received her with his usual derision but the difference was that now she could see through it. She had seen so much in her life _– too much –_ that she could recognise that the hate he had carried on him like an armour had never been directed specifically at her but at life in general. And yet… the air of loathing that used to surround him, not differentiating whoever came into its sphere, seemed to have diminished. Back in King's Landing she had been an easy prey for it, but even had he still carried it, she would have not been so prone to its effects. Not anymore.

So she had offered him her help and he had accepted it.

"Because you saved my life once," she said out loud.

"All good deeds will be rewarded, is that it? Fuck that girl, I did what I did with no danger to myself. Those rioters were only rats. But you have something to loose; what will your _beloved_ _Father_ say if he finds out that you pried his prisoner out of his clutches?" Sansa could practically feel the sneer in his voice. She looked at him but the notion of a change she had spotted the previous night was there again despite his tone. Something in him was different but she couldn't quite put her finger into what it was.

His features were the same; the hooked nose, weathered skin, hard features and long dark hair combed over the side of his burned face. His scars had certainly not diminished in size nor in appearance. That they didn't disturb her anymore she had registered already, but it told more about changes in _her_ than in him. She cocked her head and studied the Hound so long that he started to shift uncomfortably and as in a gesture countering her move fixed his own gaze on her with equal intensity.

 _His eyes. The rage is not there anymore_ , Sansa suddenly realised. The deep grey pools were as guarded as before, but the barely restrained anger simmering in them was gone. They looked at each other for a long time, neither giving anything away. Then a moment of rare uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he addressed her.

"I could take you with me." The echoes of the last time he had made her the same offer reverberated in the room, both feeling them but as if by mutual decision leaving them unacknowledged.

"I can't leave little Sweet-Robin. If I leave…" Sansa didn't finish the sentence. What did the Hound care about her worries or her secret plans, slowly brewed over many months to find a way to get back to Winterfell, even if with dubious help from Littlefinger? In any case, although this time he was not drunk or mad from fear, going with a man like him would still be surely dangerous and outcome unpredictable.

So Sansa ignored him and moved to study his predicament in more detail. She had made subtle enquiries earlier that day and found out that the cell the Hound had been housed in was a relic of old; an interrogation room reserved for captured enemy who needed to be… _persuaded_ to tell their secrets.

The key she had secured from the anteroom opened the lock holding a central bundle of chains that were linked to the prisoner's arms and legs in one end, and after looping via four hooks in the wall, attached to a heavy ballast in the other. One push of a lever mounted to the wall would see the weight drop and the prisoner's arms and legs stretched taut, neatly preventing any movement by the hapless victim. The purpose was not necessarily to harm the person - yet - but only to secure him and render him helpless to resist what was to follow.

Sansa shivered. It felt strange to have someone as strong as the Hound under such restraints. Just one movement of her hand and he would lie on that bench immobilised, unable to resist whatever harm was to be visited upon his body. _She_ knew how it felt, to be helpless and under someone else's power. And in an ironical twist of fate it had been this very person she was helping now who had subjected her to that ordeal – and not only once, but twice.

 _Restless dreams, tossing and turning in her bed until sheets tangled around her limbs in tight coils and the heat almost suffocated her – except it was not the heat in the room but within_ her _. HIS stare on her naked skin so forceful that it was almost like a touch; HIS warm breath stirring soft hairs on her body, the silken brush of HIS hair caressing her breasts, her thighs, her stomach…_

 _Waking up in cold dread, green flames filling the_ _sky, his weight pinning her under him, the stench of blood and vomit and wine engulfing them both. And then…wetness on his cheek that wasn't sticky as blood; his low murmur; retreating footsteps._

Sansa had dreamt of those times often. Not by choice, but she was powerless to prevent them invading her head time and time again. Sometimes her dreams were sensuous and she found herself drawn to them as if they were something desirable… And sometimes she woke up in cold sweat with a taste of terror in her mouth. Yet always she felt helpless – and she had learned to loath that feeling.

Sansa felt his gaze on her once again, heavy and expecting. Despite the Hound being the one imprisoned and restrained, his strength exuded from him in primal waves and dominated the room just like it had always done, and she felt weak because of it. All of a sudden she felt a twinge of anger. Why was _he_ allowed to come back from death when her father, her mother, her brothers and sister were today as gone as ever? Why the Hound, who most certainly was not a good person, got to live, and her loving and caring family did not? It was so unfair that a slight sob escaped from her lips attracting the prisoner's attention. He lifted his head and threw an odd look into her direction but didn't say a word. Sansa pretended to have nicked her thumb and stuck it into her mouth to buy some time.

Having sorted out the order of the fetters Sansa attempted to fit the key into a central lock but her hands shook uncontrollably and it kept slipping away. Throwing a sideway glance at the Hound she saw him already stretching his arms in anticipation of his freedom.

She pulled the key out and weighed it in her palm. Just one turn of the rusty lock and he could remove the chains binding his manacles and he would be free - and the moment would be over. The moment when she, Sansa, had control over the Hound.

 _The night when Blackwater was on fire – his steel on her throat. 'Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.'_

A small voice whispered inside Sansa's head. _Now is your chance. You can pay him back with his own coin._ Almost without realising it she lowered her hand. A strange madness took over her and instead of the lock she reached for the lever.

SCREEEECCHHHH!

The rusty metal made a noise as thousand devils howling as the heavy coils clattered through the hoops. Too fast for the Hound to react. In just a few seconds he had been pulled prone on the bench, legs and arms extended exactly as Sansa had envisioned.

"The fuck, girl!? What did you just pull on me?" He sounded more surprised than angry – yet. Sansa stood frozen on the spot, hand still resting on the lever.

The Hound seemed too stunned even to struggle against his predicament, only flexing his arms as if for a tentative tug. The muscles on his forearm roiled under his skin as he pulled, but the ballast was too heavy. Sansa couldn't tear her eyes away from him, fascinated by his shock. Her heart pumped loudly in her ears. _What have I done?_


	2. A Good Dog Knows Its Place

Eventually the Hound gave up his struggle, cursed loudly and turned towards Sansa. "What is this bloody play? Do you want to help me or not? If not, why bother to come here at all? Just let your dear _Father_ and his cronies to deal with me."

The old war-dog in him had taken over; his scowl was deep and his lips pared back revealing strong white teeth, the rigid form of the scarred corner of his mouth twisting his features into something out of a nightmare. Suddenly Sansa was reminded that _this_ dog did not only bark but could also bite.

Yet she had no answer to him. She couldn't even think clearly and wondered what next; what on earth could follow her foolish notion? He was angry now – the rage she thought had left him had returned ten-fold. A rational part of her mind told that it was no wonder; she _had_ promised to help him and let him go.

Prevaricating between simply running away, or pulling the other lever that was linked to a counterweight and _then_ running away, yet another thought came to her. And with that, calmness.

Sansa released her grip from the handle and stepped back a few steps to look at the huge man lying on the bench, subjugated. He had given up his efforts to pull himself free and just lay there, glaring daggers at her.

With calm had arrived clarity, and all of a sudden her qualms disappeared and she knew _exactly_ what she wanted to do: To make him taste his own medicine, to let him feel what it was to be under another's power, to feel helpless and powerless to prevent what was done to him. _It will teach him a lesson. That is all I want, to show him that. Then he can be on his way._

With composure she returned to her bundle and seized the dagger, then returned to her victim. The Hound took her approach in and instead of fear she saw only defiance in his demeanour.

"A fucking dagger? Is that it, you want to cut me with it? Go on, do it then!" He lifted his chin and Sansa saw his shoulders tensing in anticipation of whatever she had in mind. Fleetingly she wondered if he had been ever tortured or held against his will like this - and unbidden an image of a boy dark of hair, pressed against hot coals, flashed through her mind. _Don't think about that now._ She wavered for just a second but then pushed the feeling of uneasiness away.

"Should I ask you for a song?" The words came out of nowhere.

 **That.** The change in him was imminent. Where there had been growling menace and defiance just a second ago, now all she could see was his downcast eyes and a flick of his head as he turned it away, abruptly. _Why?_

Sansa held her breath, waiting for him to say something, anything. To curse her again, perhaps. To tell her to get on with the job. Yet silence surrounded them both, silence of a tomb. It made sense – cries of agony of those tortured there should not be heard elsewhere in the castle. After a while her ears attuned to the silence and no, it was not a complete silence after all. A rustle; sounds of small animals making their way in stale rushes. A faint clank of metal against metal. His laboured breathing. Blood humming in her own ears, rushing through her veins.

Finally he spoke. "Aye, mayhap you should. Mayhap I owe you one." His voice was lower than before, hardly a whisper. He had ceased his movements and just lay there, motionless.

 _Should I ask him to sing Florian and Jonquil?_ The passing thought made Sansa smile weakly. "No need. I have something else in mind."

She approached the Hound's prone form carefully despite his constrains. There's nothing as dangerous as a trapped beast, she remembered her father explaining to her brothers once, a lifetime ago. He had continued explaining that the danger lay in that they fought even more fiercely as they had nothing to lose.

"I will not harm you," she added, as if to placate the wild animal in him. Maybe she shouldn't have, maybe it would have been better for him to dread what she was going to do? Yet a lesson was all she had in mind.

Her expert mind soon saw where to best cut and so slicing and tearing the cloth she worked away, her tongue darting between her lips in deep concentration. That she knew how to work fabric helped, although Sansa could have never imagined putting her knowledge to _this_ kind of use. She felt almost sorry for ruining a perfectly good tunic, although it was well-worn and crudely made, probably by the brother's themselves. From the corner of her eye she noticed him following the blade as it moved about him, although when she neared the collar he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away so far that the cords of his neck strained.

As she got close to him she got a whiff of an oddly familiar scent - and quite out of the blue she found herself in the sept of Winterfell. Herbs and fragrant oils burning in front of statues of the Seven… memories of prayers kneeling next to her lady mother… tranquillity and serenity filling her soul… Then she shook her head, almost angrily, telling herself that this was _the Hound_ , not a real brother of the Faith. Scent of a sept steeped into his clothes did not make him holy in truth.

She tried not to think of the man under her hands but only focussed on the task. It was difficult though. He was not one of the maids standing in for her, wearing a half-finished dress so that she could mark the length of hem and sleeves, the gravest danger being that she stuck a needle just a little bit too enthusiastically earning a muffled squeal from her victim. No, this was a beast of a man, full of explosive energy that would be directed squarely at her with destructive consequences should he be free. Sansa was grateful for the ancient chains, briefly glancing at the sturdy hooks protruding from the wall. They would not break, not even under an onslaught by someone of his strength and stature.

Yet there was a strange acquiescence in the Hound, whose eyes followed her every move with an intense focus almost equal to her own. She had expected him to struggle more, curse more and try to bring her down with crude words. Yet he stayed silent and she wasn't sure whether she would have preferred colourful language and his loathing over the ominous acceptance.

When Sansa finally moved away he however shuddered and released the breath he had been holding. She admired her handiwork; the tunic was now in pieces that slid away easily falling onto the bench, revealing his naked upper body to her eye.

"I will look upon you now. Just look – I will not touch you." Where these the same words he had said to her all those years ago? She couldn't remember. What she did, was the terror and anxiety washing over her when he had undressed her, an innocent maiden, wholly terrified…and yet there had been something else too.

 _He_ was far from innocent and it would not be her eyes on him that would make him fret, but being forcefully restrained might do it. Of course she was _not_ going to look at him as greedily as he had stared at her. She was still a lady, despite her current extremely unladylike behaviour. And ladies did not feast their eyes on semi-naked men.

Sansa had moved at the head of the long bench just behind her victim's head, so he couldn't see her. His scrutiny had started to get on her nerves and she decided to let him just lay there for a while so he could experience fully how it felt to be completely helpless. She observed the stonework on the opposite wall, glanced at the oaken door, checked the wall hooks once more. She looked everywhere else but at him.

Except…her eyes were inexorably drawn to him wherever she looked and after a while she gave up.

 _How hairy he is!_ was the first thought that crossed her mind when she took in his appearance. She had seen before straight bristles of his beard morphing into short curls down his throat and under his collar, but now she could see how the matt of dark hair continued unbroken down to his chest and stomach. His neck was thick, his chest was broad and well-formed and outlines of his muscles clearly defined. They curved from his sides to his shoulders in a dance of alternative arcs, the thick forms of his upper arms twisting and coiling in a strange symmetry, tapering towards his elbows and then again growing in size in his forearms. There was a distinctive line where the browned skin of his lower arms turned paler, suggesting that he had spent time outdoors in shortened sleeves. Thick veins travelled under his skin and there was something vulnerable in how they appeared so exposed in the undersides of his arms where his skin was paler and scarcer of hair. _And how big he is!_

And then she noticed the scars; the story of his harsh life painted on the canvas of his skin. Battles, skirmishes, ambushes, all inscribed with the universal language of pain and sufferance.

Sansa had seen half-naked people before; children running around the warm ponds of Winterfell in days gone by; girls with whom she had bathed in communal baths; soldiers in training yard their upper body bare on a particularly warm day. Always they had seemed somehow less without their clothes; smaller and less-threatening with their pale limbs and sticky arms. But the Hound was an exception. It was not only the abundance of hair covering him all over, even in his armpits – she had hair there as well, but it was soft and downy, not dark and long, and the sight of his was all too disquieting for her. Neither was it his size alone. Or maybe it was, maybe it was the solidity of his build that made him now appear if possible even _bigger_ than he had been with his tunic on.

Still the silence was suffocating. Sansa couldn't understand why he was so quiet when she had expected a string of expletives, threats and curses. Yet there he was, only the up and down heave of his chest indicating that he lived and breathed. He had turned his head back towards her and his eyes were open, once again focussing on the cause of his current predicament - her. He showed no fear or anger and there was something unnerving in his composure.

Realising that this was not enough and that she had to do something else to make him truly realise the gregarious position he was in, Sansa resorted to the only threat she had. She leaned over him once again with the dagger in her hand, and ignoring his stare she lowered the blade so it lay flush against his ribs. She noticed him wincing – _the steel must be cold –_ and heard his sudden intake of breath. She slid the blade flat against the skin and felt how it caught the hair and cut it.

She registered how his nipples, not far away from the dagger edge, stood erect even though the room was not particularly cold. No hair was growing in a flesh-coloured area around them, she noticed with interest, and curiously their size seemed disproportionately small compared to everything else in him. This was the first time she was able to pay attention to such things as she had never been so close to a man in such state of undress. A part of her - the part that was not shocked by her own audacity and wary of every movement of the Hound lest he lashed at her by some miracle - took in those things with morbid curiosity.

"That much about 'no touching'. Didn't expect anything less though. So go on, cut me, girl. Do it! You do you know where the heart is, don't you? Why else would you lay a blade on me?" His voice was still low, but strangely not angry. His body though – it was tense and his shoulders hunched as if in anticipation of springing into a movement. Sansa recoiled.

"I am not _really_ touching you. Only with the blade – and my hair," she added and by impulse lowered her head and shook it slightly so her long tresses fell down and on his chest.

 _The brush of his hair on her skin, the tips of his locks tickling her. She had concluded then that he had not broken his promise as how could he have controlled where his hair lay?_

The big gasp of air he breathed in on the impact startled her almost as much as the sight of his bare skin so near. It was untoward, it was indecent, she should not be so close to him. _A lesson – a lesson for him is what this is all about._

Full of resolve and with bravado hiding her fluster she moved to her next target, slicing the cloth covering his lower limbs with a few strategically placed cuts. The tearing sound as she pulled it apart filled the room. Startled, she paused for a moment before continuing more cautiously.

When the tip of her blade met the fabric of his smallclothes under the rough-woven material of the breeches, she hesitated. The image of Tyrion on her wedding night came to her. His manhood had been ugly, thick and veined with a bulbous purple head. She didn't want to see anything like _that_ again for sure.

Sansa lifted the tip and sliced only through the top layer.


	3. Crossing Boundaries

**Author's Notes:** Sorry for the delay, I got…ummm…distracted by certain recent WWE events…

Once again many thanks for all who have read and commented! After this, only one more chapter to go!

* * *

As before Sansa knew exactly what she was doing and soon enough only the remnants of the fabric lay heaped around the Hound's legs. With alarm she noticed that despite leaving his smallclothes untouched she couldn't avoid seeing movement under them, a growing outline of something stiff and straight extending towards his belly. She knew what it was – she was not some silly young girl anymore, after all. What she couldn't understand was how he _could_ be aroused at a time like this. Was he truly? How was it possible? She knew some things about men but not much. People spoke more freely in the presence of a bastard girl than with a lady and she had heard many lewd and ribald tales about men and their inclinations – but not enough to solve the riddle almost literally staring her in the eye.

As before, she stared at his prone body with curiosity. Thickset thighs, legs pulled slightly apart by the binds securing him. Hair, hair, once again hair everywhere. Every angle and line looked exaggerated and hard, unyielding. There wasn't anything soft in him, only hard planes and bony outlines and firm skin tightly pulled across strong muscles, not a visible layer of fat anywhere. The shadows thrown by the torchlight danced on his skin, weaving their whimsical shapes here and there.

"Take it all off, why don't you? You know you want to. You have seen cocks before, haven't you? The Imp's – was it as grotesque as the rest of that vile dwarf? I bet it was but you were a dutiful wife for him anyway, of that I am sure. Opening your legs and letting him fuck you as a lady should. Tell me, did you close your eyes and dream of the Knight of Flowers, little bird?" The Hound's tone was bitter and mocking but Sansa tried to ignore it.

"How about Littlefinger's, is it as little as the nickname suggests? That mummer's play about you being his daughter, even a blind septon sees through that. He was leering at you already back in King's Landing – but you knew that, didn't you? Is that how you got him to rescue you after you killed that little shit of a king? Not that I care about that, mind you. Quite the opposite; well done, girl."

Shutting her ears didn't work and the Hound's vile accusations against her made Sansa's blood boil. How did he dare to pretend to know anything about her; her unconsummated marriage to Tyrion or Petyr's plans for her, plans which required her to be able to proof her maidenhood to the Faith in due course? He was just a hateful man, thinking everyone to be as horrid as he was!

"Shut your mouth, just shut it. You know nothing," she hissed at him, angry for real, momentarily even forgetting the obscene sight of his manhood in the constraints of the fabric.

"I know enough. I know that I am lying here trussed like a pig to slaughter, with Lady Sansa fucking Stark ripping clothes off my body. Never took you for a lusty wench, little bird. Or if not lusty, then revengeful."

How was it possibly when she was the one with control, having him shackled so securely that the only thing he could move was his head and his filthy mouth, he still seemed to have an upper hand? Sansa pressed the blade harder on his thigh, where it had stayed forgotten after the last cut.

"Go on, make me bleed. You need more force, press the tip harder," he growled and she did as he bid. A bright red drop of blood emerged from where the tip pricked his skin and she observed it in a trance-like state, and others that followed. So beautiful, so bright, drop after drop, soon smeared into the ever-present hair on his thigh. How was it possible for a man to be so hairy, she didn't know. He was truly a dog, a hound, a wild animal.

Without a conscious thought she lifted the tip of the blade to her lips. Sharp, coppery taste, hint of iron. She closed her eyes. She had tasted it before – on the night of the Blackwater. After he had left her room she had stared at her hand, stick with his blood – and something else. Something wet, something like water – but when she had tentatively licked the tip of her finger she had recognised the saltiness. _The taste I knew too well by then._

Waking up from her reverie she put the blade down, embarrassed. Following the trail of blood again as it trickled down the side of his leg she noticed a deep gash and puckered skin; yet another wound. Many scars, old and new, covered his chest, shoulders and arms, but this was worse than the others – even the angry burn on his forearm. A big chunk of flesh had been eaten away, leaving only undulating skin and tightly pulled flesh stretched across the hollow dent.

Suddenly Sansa felt ashamed. He was crude and coarse, that much was true, but was it a wonder? His face and the uncounted other signs of his past life mapped his body and told his story as clearly as if read out loud. This was a man whose life had been marred by hardship and cruelty and yet he had once been kind to her – in his own way. And here she was, cutting into him.

She put the blade aside and wearily wiped her forearm across her face. Luckily she had only succeeded in nicking him slightly, the trickle of blood already halting. Sansa let her gaze travel down all the way to his ankles covered with iron cuffs. She had indeed never seen anyone as big and strong, bar his brother the Mountain – but that thought made her shudder in disgust. To wipe away the image of the monster she looked at the Hound again, all the way from his toes to the top of his head, only to be taken aback by the expression on his face. His eyes were half-closed and his mouth slightly open. His breathing was uneven and ragged, but his gaze did not drop when her eyes met his.

 _Never seen anyone so strong – and unlikely to see ever again._ Myranda Royce's breathless giggles, _all a woman needs is a man that can carry her and hold her and fuck her like there's no tomorrow_ came to Sansa. Her friend had always ogled after the soldiers of the Vale, the bigger and stronger the better. _Randa would have a field day with him_ , she sighed and sat down on a low stool next to her victim, drained of all energy. Her plan of trying to intimidate him felt foolish and childish. Trying to give the Hound a lesson, what utter stupidity!

Her shoulders slumped and she lowered her head, staring at her hands and the useless dagger still dangling in them. What had she thought, what madness had taken over her? She was supposed to bring him clothes and something to defend himself with, unlock his cell and chains and the door to the bailey, then leave. He had saved her life once – or twice if Sansa was honest to herself, remembering the day when Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head on the spike – and all she had meant to do was to return the favour. And yet…

 _As horrified as she had been at the thought of someone setting eyes on her most private parts she had let him to do just that. The heat had travelled from her chest down to her core, and despite having been tense as a bowstring she had spread her legs and allowed his gaze to penetrate her secret place, feeling wetness that had been all new to her._

Later Sansa had learned what it signified, and it had come back to her on those restless nights when the memory of that incidence had haunted her dreams. Wetness, and an odd sensation in her woman's parts that only gave respite when she rubbed her thighs together – but even that was only temporary and the stirring came back twice as bad after that. She had not known what to do and in the end her only recourse had been to get up and walk around her room, reciting to herself the tasks she needed to do the next day. Dull, unexciting chores that however soothed her mind so that she could get back to her bed and sleep.

Maybe it was no wonder that the Hound had reacted as he did, Sansa understood then. And blushed. And bowed her head even lower and panicked. _He must not see that I know._

Pretending confidence she most certainly did not feel she stood up and glanced across the cell, trying to locate where she had dropped the key to the chains. It was not too late, she could still let him free. And pray he would not attack her for her impudence. Maybe if she only opened the lock and let him to untangle himself free on his own, she would have time to dash through the door and run away before he could catch her?

Spotting the rusty key on the floor where she had dropped it Sansa took a tentative step towards it before being halted by his voice.

"Little bird."

He spoke low, but rather than angry or mocking he sounded solemn and serious. Sansa wanted to ignore it and do as she had planned but something in his tone made her stop. Yet she didn't look at him, still lying prone on the bench only in his smallclothes, the visual clues of his disturbing state still obvious.

"Why not finish what you started?"

Sansa jumped. _He can't mean…_

All she wanted to do was to forget that any of this had happened, that she had been this stupid and vengeful. She wanted to run away to her room and burrow herself deep under the covers and close her eyes and… _what? Dream?_ Let her mind wander far away from her cage of pretend-care by her pretend-father? Imagine something else; feelings and emotions and strange sensations she would have never been exposed to except for…

"You want to pay back what I did to you. Can't blame you. I just stood there when they beat you – and did worse myself."

Rattle of chains, a huff.

"I deserve everything you have coming for me."

Sansa shook her head in confusion. Something was not right. The Hound she had known could _not_ be asking to be humiliated like this. He could _not_ be asking for his punishment from _her._ She stood where she had stopped, unable to move back or forth.

"Little bird…" Low, rasping, taunting.

Sansa swayed on the spot. That voice… his eyes. She had actually never realised that they took on a darker grey when he was really, really serious.

She turned to face him. None of his current predicament could diminish the sway he still had over her. She was not a scared little girl nor a prisoner of a court anymore. She had grown, she had become a woman. And the woman in her was curious, much more than the lady should have been.

And so she approached him once again, unable to help it. Like _then_ , when he had wordlessly asked her. And as then, she could not refuse him this time either.

Hands shaking Sansa reached for the ties of his smallclothes, which were simple peasant-style, only one piece of cloth brought together on the sides with cords. Her nimble fingers made a quick work of them and as soon as she started to tug at the fabric the Hound let out a shuddering gasp and pushed his hips up thus making it easy for her to pull the cloth away.


	4. The Hound's Deception

**Author's Notes:** And this is it, the end of another sansan fic… How come I ended up writing endlessly about these two, I will never know! I have a few older tales in need of some polishing and possible posting, but my fingers are itching to write other, different stories too. So we'll see…

Thank you all for joining me on this ride – I have enjoyed it thoroughly and I hope that so have you! I guess we can consider these two now to be even, eh?

* * *

Sansa really didn't want to look at him _there_ , she truly didn't. She stared at the cloth on the floor and willed herself not to raise her eyes.

"Look at me."

That same serious tone. Sansa turned her head and carefully avoiding his manhood looked straight into the Hound's eyes. _He always wanted me to look at him, that's all he ever asked. Why was it so hard then?_ His eyes caught hers and pulled her in and she felt herself sink into their depths. All the rage and mockery had left him and for the first time Sansa felt that she could see through his defences all the way to the core of this strange man. He blinked his eyes once, twice and swallowed hard.

"Look at _me_ , Sansa."

Sansa understood then that he wanted more. He always wanted more. And by some curious power he held over her she submitted to him once again.

His manhood was big and jutted upwards from a thicket of dark hair, resting against his stomach unashamed and insolent. She couldn't really tell whether it was unusually big or not – she had heard giggles and japes about bigger being better but none of that really mattered at this moment. The vague recollections of Tyrion were pushed aside in Sansa's mind in front of this new reality. _It is so ugly,_ she thought but forced herself to look again in any case. And was surprised.

Thick, straight, smooth, a faint web of veins circling the shaft, the end swollen and round yet a curious ridge of skin on the underside parting it in two. It was the most peculiar thing Sansa had ever seen and for a moment she forgot the situation and only marvelled at the strangeness of it. At the very end of she saw a small opening and a drop of clear fluid. No sooner had she spotted it that she became much too aware of the wetness in her own smallclothes, and hypnotised by that and the display on front of her she couldn't tear her eyes away from the Hound's… _cock._

"Touch me." His voice was hardly a murmur.

Sansa couldn't believe her ears. She shot a look up at him and blushed deeply.

"I am not touching you, I told you so."

" _Please_."

 _Please? The Hound pleading at her?_ Sansa shook her head affirmatively. As fascinating as the sight of him was after she had gotten around her initial aversion, she couldn't imagine actually _touching_ it. Although…the rounded head looked awfully smooth, unexpectedly so. She bit her lip, bewildered. What had she expected, scales?

"Your hair..." A deep growl, almost a sob.

Sansa couldn't explain why she felt so compelled to do as he begged but without a deliberate decision on her part she had already leaned above him, rising from the low seat she had slumped back on after undressing him. She closed her eyes and shook her head once more, feeling her long hair falling down on both sides of her face like a curtain. From the hissing sound and a moan she guessed it must have made contact with his flesh. Eyes tightly crunched shut she moved her head to the side, leaning forward just a bit more. The scent of him met her, a scent of a human body that should have made her wrinkle her nose and yet she inhaled it in. A hint of sweat, a hint of something she couldn't define but which reminded her of the last time she had been so close to him, when the sky had been green and the shrieks of dying had pierced the night.

The time before that also came to her and she took a deep breath and opened her eyes – and softly blew a gush of air down towards his manhood. So close up it was still the oddest thing she had ever cast her eyes at, but something in it appeared to her as vulnerable, bare.

"Fuck, girl!" Jangle of iron and muffled curse were followed by a thrust of his hips and Sansa scrambled back, stunned by his reaction. His member twitched and for a moment she was afraid of what she had just unleashed.

The man in front of her breathed fast as if struggling against an invisible foe. His eyes were closed, deep creases radiating from their corners, his brow was deeply furrowed and the grimace on his face was agony personified. Sansa stared at the sight astounded, not being able to reconcile this image of a man brought so low with the one who just a short while ago had taunted her and seemed so strong and confident.

Watching him shudder and writhe Sansa suddenly grasped fully what she was witnessing. Maybe it had not gone exactly the way she had expected, but here they were, the fierce Hound quivering in front of her - _because_ of her. If she had wanted to make him feel helpless and weak in her hands, what she had just observed was more than a proof that her plan had been a resounding success. To get the final confirmation she bowed her head once again and exhaled towards his still twitching member – and was rewarded with a groan, a curse, a deep sigh and an uncontrolled buck of his hips.

"Gods, woman! Don't stop…just…don't…"

There was no mistaking it, he was _begging._ Despite the hotchpotch of emotions chasing each other in her head Sansa felt a surge of pride blooming inside her chest. She had done it!

She stood up, a new spring in her steps. The key she had spotted earlier was lying on the stone floor and she bent down to pick it up. Her hands were steady as she slotted it into the old lock; one turn, stiff and jerked, but she saw the chains released and knew that her task was done.

A few hasty steps and she pulled the counter lever and the horrible sound of iron screeching hastened her as she darted towards the door. And ran.

* * *

Petyr Baelish was angry the next day, his lips pressed together into a thin hard line. When Sansa asked him what was the matter, he only muttered something about intolerable brothers and refused to tell her more. She didn't press him further, relieved that her own involvement in the case didn't seem to have been discovered.

She saw groups of men riding out of the keep, one after another. Much later she saw many of those same groups returning, empty-handed. She guessed some were sent all the way to the Quiet Isle to wait for the return of their prisoner, and part of her rejoiced knowing that he was sure to be already far away in the other direction and their search would be fruitless.

For the whole morning Sansa simply refused to look back on the events of previous night, her denial made easier by the many chores she needed to attend to. When she had woken up, tired after another restless night, she had been horrified to face her own actions in the clear light of day. Had it been really she who had restrained the Hound, cut his clothes on him and revealed his nakedness to her eyes? Had she finally lost her mind – what on earth had made her do that?

However, avoidance worked only so far. After eventually finding it too hard to control her nerves under Petyr's observing eyes she retired to her room in the middle of the day pretending to feel unwell. The enormity of her actions, so unladylike and unkind, haunted her. And yet… somewhere behind her horror resided a small sense of satisfaction – she was ashamed of it but couldn't deny it either. She, Sansa Stark, a pretty little talking bird repeating pretty little words others had taught her to recite, had shown the big angry Hound how it felt to be subjugated against his will. _There!_

That in the end she had done his bidding she dismissed, deciding that it had been her own wish to strip him completely naked and torment him with her attention to… _that_ part of him. The thought made her blush and she buried her face into the pillow and rolled over in her bed and felt once again the delirious feeling of being seized by something outside her control, being hot and cold and sweaty and shivering, all at once. When she closed her eyes she could see him; naked and hairy, powerful and vulnerable - and completely under her control. And his manhood…it hadn't been all that ugly after all. Sansa wondered what had made it look so different to Tyrion's, then how it would have felt to her touch - and then she shrieked and giggled out loud at the thought and clutched her pillow even harder.

After the evening meal, during which she was subdued and distracted by her thoughts and replied to Petyr's queries about her day only in monosyllabic sentences, she returned to her room. Despite her weariness she didn't rate her chances of falling asleep highly, and after some fruitless tossing and turning she got up, dressed and descended by now the familiar route into the old cell.

Inside everything was outwardly just like the previous night, bar of course the absence of its occupant. Only one torch shed its light to the chamber, its flickering light throwing deep shadows into the corners. Sansa sat down on the low stool and sighed. What had she expected to find here? The Hound returned, hunched against the wall – stretched on the bench – _naked?_ She sent a silent prayer to the gods that his journey would be safe and he would find whatever he wanted to find. He hadn't told her where he was heading – a natural and understandable precaution – but had muttered something about the North. _North, might be. Could be._

Suddenly Sansa wished she had left with him after all. Took her chances, wherever it might have led her. Forgot about Sweet-Robin, forgot about Petyr's plans, forgot about everything but the man who had promised to protect her and take her home. _And now it is too late._

Absentmindedly she reached for one of the iron cuffs abandoned on the bench. He must had left them in a tangled heap in his haste, and Petyr's men had not wasted time putting them away as it had been blatantly obvious that their prey had flown the nest.

The bands were thick and wide, the wrist-cuffs heavy in her hands. She studied them, observing how the two half-circles were joined together on one side by a hinge with alternating knuckles with an iron bolt through them, and on the other side by two larger coils through which the heavy chain looped. After she had opened the lock and released the chains, all he had to do was to pull the chains through the coils to free himself.

Sansa furrowed her brow and turned the cuff in her hands, taking a closer look at it. Her heart started to palpitate and soon she reached for another, then the leg-cuff and its pair. Her mouth was dry as a parchment and heavy thumping of her heart against her ribcage made her feel dizzy. _No, it can't be. It couldn't be._

And yet it was.

The chains were still as neatly looped through the coils as before, all four cuffs tightly secured on that side. However, the hinges were open, the bolts supposed to secure them having rusted through and broken into pieces leaving only the ends intact.

Cold sweat trickled down her forehead as she twisted and turned the iron objects, refusing to believe what they told her. _He must have looped the chains back after he freed himself. Or Petyr's men must have done that._ Even when she ran through those options in her mind she knew she was only fooling herself. Why would he have bothered, why men of the Vale would have cared? And those rusted pieces of bolts couldn't have kept a man of his size in check in any case.

The truth stared her in the face unambiguous and clear. _He could have got up at any time. He was never bound and under my control._ The reality of her discovery hit her hard and for a moment she felt like fainting. Bending down, resting her head in her hands and taking a few deep lungfuls of air eventually saw her strength restored.

 _He was free all that time when I was taunting him._ She remembered the roil of muscles in his arms as he had – as she had thought – struggled against the chains. _A mummer's play. Or maybe he struggled to lay still, not to give away how easily he could have ended it?_ But he hadn't – he had allowed her to cut his clothes, pierce his flesh and taunt him in the most reprehensible way…

For a moment Sansa felt sick. _He could have gotten up at time, even in the state he was…He could have…_ The thought of all the things he could have done to her, she being there all alone, nobody knowing her whereabouts and the room secured so that her shouts for help would not have travelled far…But he had done nothing, not even when her blade had pricked his skin.

 _Why?_ Why had he let her do those things to him? Why hadn't he stopped her? Sansa was puzzled. Was she ever going to find it out? Was she ever going to see him again?

* * *

 _"I owed it to you. That and more." A quick sideways look from her erstwhile lord husband and a slow grin spread into his homely, scarred face. "And I was curious to see if you were going to pierce my guts in earnest as I deserved, little bird."_

 _And so - after many years, after their world had turned upside down once more, after the ghosts from their past had been laid to rest and intimacy and trust had bloomed between unlikely lovers - Sansa finally had her answer._

 **THE END**


End file.
